Wild Nights

by Therese Szymanski

  I kissed her goodbye, thanking her for the experience. I ended up leaving early for school: I never saw her again, but I will always be grateful for the night we had together.

  Joining The Mile High Club

  Rachel Kramer Bussel

  Two days before our trip to Los Angeles, I tell my girlfriend she’s not allowed to masturbate until we arrive in the city of angels. I’ve never given her an order like this, and I’m not sure how she’ll react. Two days may not seem like a lot, but I know what she’s had planned for those lonely hours between the end of Friends and the sleep she needs but tries to put off as long as she can. I’m pleased that even though she is usually a once-a-day masturbator, she not only follows my command but delightedly tells her friends about it. The power of having her instantly not only doing my bidding, but thrilled with the challenge, surges through me, a rush more powerful than any endorphin high. I feel my lips humming, trembling with more orders, more opportunities to put our unspoken power dynamic to the test.

  After her parents drop us off at the airport, I pull her into an extra-large stall in the airport bathroom and make her close her eyes before fastening a glistening new magenta collar around her neck, another surprise that will make her think of me every time it so much as touches her skin, every time she catches it winking at her in the mirror. It’s not the kind of toy that passes for anything but 100-percent kinky, a complement to her cascades of California blonde hair and endless blue eyes. It fits her perfectly, as I’d hoped it would, and once it’s there I can’t imagine her without it. We exit and both admire the blazingly bright choker, our eyes drawn to this simple addition that in a moment seems to drastically change our relationship, securing all the unspoken promises into one shiny, attention-getting band.

  We board the JetBlue flight, not caring so much about the multiple cable stations as the chance to get it on while in the air. She has the aisle seat and I have the middle. I know she’s scared of flying, but I intend to make sure she doesn’t have time to worry about disaster befalling us. After we’re seated, I start playing with the collar, my hand automatically reaching for the metal loop in back. It looks so good on her, so natural, and I can’t help but look up at it and smile every few minutes. We’ve been inching toward playing like this—me ordering her around, spanking her, assigning her special outfits—but the collar has raised the bar for our play together. Since she likes to be choked, likes the way my hand feels pressing lightly, and sometimes firmly, against her neck, whether sprawled in bed or out on the town, I know that every time I tug on the collar and the band digs into her tender skin, she gets excited, and I use this knowledge to my strategic advantage, already anticipating its magical ability to make her instantly wet.

  We settle into our seats, claiming dominion over the three-row aisle with our assortment of pop culture goodies. I have a surprise planned for her and she is trying to guess, but clearly has no idea. She’s an impatient sort, but also doesn’t want me to give it away too early. Besides, for this surprise, I have a co-conspirator in the form of our stewardess, though she hardly knows it. We have piled huge stacks of books and magazines in front of us, all the ones I’ve been meaning to read but haven’t had a chance to. The flight attendants keep stopping to examine our towering media piles, picking up Ellen DeGeneres’s book and saying “oh, she’s so funny!” before heading on their way. When the drink cart arrives, I ask for a water and a tomato juice, and some ice. When they ask my girl if she wants ice, I nudge her and she says yes. I’m delighted when our drinks arrive with not one but two cups of ice each—perfect! She still doesn’t know my plan, and is pestering me with questions, so I finally whisper her mission to her.

  “There’s an ‘iced T-shirt’ contest coming up at a local dyke play party next month. Like a wet T-shirt contest, but with ice, and you’ll have to slide your chest across a huge block of ice for as long as you can stand it.”

  She gives me a big grin and says: “You’re fun,” agreeing immediately, as if this were an everyday request, like wearing a miniskirt or going to my favorite restaurant, even though I know she’s never done anything of the sort.

  As quickly as possible, before she’s really figured out what she’s gotten herself into, I start prepping my contestant. I grab a piece of ice and slide it into her bra, hoping that no one around us has noticed. I do the same for the other nipple, leaving them clinging to the space between her tight top and her rapidly hardening nipple, and watch as a stain quickly spreads across the fabric. I don’t linger and rub them into her nipples for fear of getting caught, but can tell by the way she squirms that the ice is having its intended effect, chilling her tender buds but warming her down below. She giggles silently and whispers to me, giving me a rundown as freezing droplets fall onto her stomach, as the cubes become ovals, chilled puddles as they absorb her body heat and she accepts their arousing offering. Without her cooperation, the game wouldn’t be any fun, wouldn’t be a game at all, but as she looks at me with those bewitching eyes while I assess every inch of her, getting used to covertly copping feels as the ice melts against her skin, I know that we’re both playing to win. Though we’re each half-aware of the chance of getting caught, like every time I’m with her, everyone else has faded into semi-oblivion; I only have eyes for this blonde minx with the devilish smile that’s focused on me.

  Every fifteen minutes or so I slide more ice into her shirt, and we try to cover our giggles. Even once it melts, her nipples are prominently visible through her shirt, the wetness giving her a look at odds with the rest of her put-together appearance. Her breasts are small and can easily fit in my hands, but what they lack in size, they make up for in sensitivity. I know the swollen cold stiffness as they press against her clingy shirt will have her panties soaked, her body straining for more, wishing there were ice in her mouth, in her pussy, on the back of her neck—in places she could never have imagined until this moment. I am content to just watch her try to figure out my next move, her body and mind eager for the next step, the next leg of the challenge I’ve issued.

  After I’ve had my fill of watching, I need to touch, to prove my suspicions correct. We spread most of the magazines strategically across her lap, so when I slide my hand under her skirt nobody will notice. The guy sitting by the window is preoccupied with his computer and the other passengers are watching their TV sets, so I have time to slide her panties aside and slip two fingers inside of her, while trying to move my arm as little as possible. The magazines teeter but stay in place, and I hope that I’m the only one who can hear the way her breathing has changed as she gets wetter. I arch inside her, my fingers still cold from the ice, but her body is warm, and when we meet, it’s the frosty heat of pleasure I’ve come to expect as she grasps me tight, keeping me there, both of us doing our best to pretend the latest round of gossip is what has captured our attention, rather than this affair more sordid than any celebrity’s.

  I bend my wrist as best I can from my seat, not able to enter her as deeply as I’d like, but teasing her nonetheless, stroking the entrance to her pussy and playing with her clit. I tease her, taking her to the brink, then pausing whenever the lumbering cart rolls by or a booming announcement makes me pause. My still fingers promise more to come, promise endless hours of seeking and stroking, of hot and cold, stop and go, pushing her to the brink and then keeping her there for as long as we both can stand it. I slide them out and feel her body beg me to stay, beg me for one more thrust, one more slam of my now-omnipotent fingers before I ease back. I give her exactly what she’s asked for, push my way between her tight, clinging walls, so hot and wet it’s all I can do not to unstrap myself and nestle right there on the floor in front of her, my head buried under the blaring headlines, the pages flopping against my hair as I see us through to the end of our mission. I finally stop after only a few minutes, the kind that feel like hours, as the captain announces our descent. I knowing that this is only a warmup, and we’ll both be ready for lots more action later. The flight has
gone surprisingly quickly, as if all it took to get from one coast to the other was the space of an almost-orgasm.

  As we exit the plane, after gathering all of our stuff into our multiple bags, one of the flight attendants gives us a knowing look and says, “Be good, girls,” a twinge in her voice letting us know that she has a clue that we haven’t been exactly “good” up to this point. We smile and exit. The plane ride is only the start of our public sex, but she doesn’t need to know that . . . yet.

  Brownout

  Brigit Futrelle

  I don’t sleep much.

  Sleep is one of those necessary evils, y’know? You lay there— prone or supine, take your pick—dead to the world, motionless. Sometimes, the dreams are good, but most nights it’s just wasted time. I’ve got shit to do, after all—plenty to keep me occupied as soon as I get home from work. Tunes to listen to, beer to drink, books to read, pots to throw.

  Yeah, that’s right, I do pottery. Got a wheel and everything, sitting in the den of my apartment. Let me tell you, there’s nothing in the world like the feeling of centering a lump of clay on a spinning wheel. The wet clay will fight with you to deform every which way, but if you lock your elbows tight and hold it steady for long enough, in just the right place: bingo. You gotta center it, see, before you start working on it—before you dip your fingers in and down, slowly creating the open space that will eventually be filled by . . . something. Anything. Hot cocoa, if it ends up a mug, or mashed potatoes if it turns into a serving bowl. Or floating candles if it’s especially pretty. But they all start the same—a perfectly centered lump of clay, my thumbs pressing down oh-so-gently into the center. I love it.

  So no, I don’t sleep much—but when I do finally fall into bed, I’m generally exhausted and often buzzed, and I’m always looking forward to drifting off right away. For the past three nights, though, that’s been impossible, thanks to one of my next-door neighbors.

  This neighbor, Sarah, has had a boyfriend for a while. Brian. He’s a nice enough guy—good looking, I suppose, if you’re into lean, dark-haired men. Me? I’m into brunette girls, and Sarah just so happens to be one of those. Her hair is thick and just a little curly, falling to her shoulders in these beautiful waves that make the tips of my fingers itch—even though she’s straight. Anyway, like I said, they’ve been dating for a while, but she and Brian Boy just (finally!) started fucking three nights ago. For some reason, they insist on doing it between two or three in the morning, and since the wall of their bedroom is the wall of my bedroom—well, I hear them. Hear her.

  Now don’t get me wrong, I love the sound of a woman coming. Hell, I love it all—sight, smell, taste, touch and oh yeah, those breathy little moans. But I’ve got two issues with overhearing Sarah and her boy: first off, I’m not the one rockin’ her world, and secondly, neither is he.

  How do I know, you ask? Well, when a girl’s on the very edge, she’s usually pretty wild. Things aren’t in control out there, y’know? It’s all sensation, all body, totally and completely selfish, no rhythm or rhyme. But Sarah’s gaspy little cries start out three seconds apart (I’m serious—I timed her, just last night) and they stay that way. Consistently. To me, that spells two words: high and dry.

  Now, in my opinion, a woman should never have to fake it. Not with a dude, not with anyone. If it’s not working for you, slow your partner down, dammit, and try something else until it does. Sure, I can understand that Sarah wants to make her man feel good about himself, seeing as they just took their relationship to the next level or whatever. But if she doesn’t teach him soon, they’ll be over within the month. Cross my heart.

  I’m not exactly thinking any of this when the power shuts down, early one evening. I’m on the wheel, see, and I don’t think about much of anything while I’m working on a project. My stereo is blaring heavy metal just loud enough to drown out most of the treble strains of “Memory,”—that song from the Cats sound-track—from the apartment of my other neighbor. Not Sarah—she listens to old school U2 and Guns ’n’ Roses and shit like that. She’s cool. But “Memory” is Annoying Annie’s favorite piece of music, so she plays it over and over and over and . . . you get the idea. If I ever have a mental break, that song will be the trigger.

  So yeah, I’m sitting there with my elbows jammed between my knees, and since this is a pretty big lump of clay, I can feel the tension in those little muscles in my forearms as I work to get it all centered up, and I’m almost there . . . when snap, the power goes out. The wheel shuts off, of course. As does my sound system. As do the lights, and the fridge, and—thank God for small favors— Annie’s stereo.

  It’s dark. I grab a few candles from my bedroom, arrange them on the coffee table, and light them. Annie starts singing “Memory” from, well, memory. Off-pitch. I’m just about ready to go over there and throttle her when there’s a knock at my door. Huh.

  When I open it, there’s Sarah. I’m really glad that my eyes have adjusted to the dim twilight, because I can tell that she looks really cute in these tight gray sweats that show off her shapely legs (she does aerobics every day—Denise Austin—I can hear it) and a paint-spattered T-shirt. Definitely not wearing a bra. Her hair is down and somehow it looks curlier than usual—but maybe that’s just the shadows. Have I mentioned that I’m a sucker for curls?

  “Hi, BJ,” she says.

  “Hey,” I answer, leaning against the doorjamb and sticking one thumb in the back pocket of my jeans. “Bummer about the power, huh?”

  “Yeah,” she replies. “Hey, do you have any matches? I found one candle, but I’ve got nothing to light it with.”

  “Sure, yeah,” I say, shifting my body so it’s not blocking the doorway. “C’mon in.” As I lead her down the short hallway, my brain manages to think up a way to get her to stay for a while. Good job, brain. “I have a bunch of candles, actually,” I tell her. When we turn into the den, she can see the small mass of light for herself. “Want to just hang out here—have a beer or something— until they turn the power back on?”

  “Okay,” she answers, smiling at me. “That’s sounds great.”

  When I get back with the drinks, she’s staring at the mass of mud on my wheel with a curious expression. “You do . . . pottery?”

  I lift one shoulder in a shrug. “Yeah. Saw that movie Ghost when I was twelve . . . it made me want to be Patrick Swayze. Ever since then—pottery.”

  Sarah laughs—one of those I think you’re funny but I don’t quite know how to reply laughs. She’s sweet—it’s easy to tell even though we’re not much more than acquaintances. A sweet, nice girl who has probably never had a decent orgasm in all her life. Crying fucking shame. I hand her the beer and sit down on the futon, and she follows suit.

  “So,” she asks after taking a swallow. “What were you making?”

  I turn to look at her. The candlelight flickers off the pale skin of her neck and somehow makes her hair seem darker. Jeez, she’s attractive. “I don’t know,” I answer, before tipping my bottle back and swallowing twice. “I never really know what’s going to happen until it does.” I raise my eyebrows at her. “But I take requests if you need anything. New mug? Bowl? Watering can?”

  “Watering can?” She sounds impressed.

  “Sure, yeah, no problem.” Watering cans are fun, and they’re also a challenge because it’s not like you can make them entirely on the wheel, see, because you have to—

  But just as I’m getting ready to explain the finer points of ceramic watering can construction, Annoying Annie decides to go for a stunning and completely off-pitch crescendo at the end of her a cappella rendition of “Memory.” She sounds like a dying cat, frankly—I mean, it’s just awful. I nearly snort beer through my nose, and when I finally calm myself down, there’s Sarah laughing helplessly next to me on the futon. In fact, she’s even leaning against me, a little.

  “Oh, that’s terrible,” she gasps into my shoulder. “Does she do that all the time?”

  “Well,” I say, caref
ul to not move a muscle, “usually, the sound-track backs her up and mostly drowns her out.”

  She laughs for a few more seconds before finally sitting up straight and reaching for her bottle. “There’s nothing on the other side of my apartment, and you’re pretty quiet,” she says. “I had no idea the walls were so thin.”

  I can’t even begin to help myself—I have to smirk at her. “It’s like you’re practically in the same room,” I drawl, feeling very abruptly like I’ve been transported into a twisted version of Bound. But that would make me Jennifer Tilly, and I do not sound that annoying, nor do I wear dresses, nuh-uh, no way, and even in the dim light, Sarah’s blush is unmistakable.

  “Oh dear,” she says in a small voice.

  I drain the rest of my beer, because dammit, suddenly I realize what I’m going to do. I’m not just going to change the subject— I’m gonna call her out. Right. Now.

  “I probably shouldn’t mention this,” I say as I lean forward into her personal space, “but I think you should let Brian know that he’s not exactly doing it for you.”

  Her frown is sharp and her eyes glitter. Angry. That’s good—I’d rather have her angry than unsatisfied. “What are you talking about?” she demands.

  I smile, just a little. “He can’t make you come. And he’ll never learn unless you show him what to do.”

  Now here, I figure, she has two options. One is to get up and walk away and never speak to me again. The other is to stay right where she is and hear me out. And . . . well, okay, I guess there’s a third—because she could always stay right where she is and let me show her. I silently but enthusiastically vote for number three.

  “I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” she snaps. But she doesn’t move.

  “I guess it’s not, technically,” I reply. “Except that it’s damn hard for me to go to sleep when I know there’s a needy woman in the next room over.”